Fall From Grace
by Mat Glue
Summary: It had turned out all wrong – messed up –screwed up – f..ked up. Story of my life, story of my job, story of my love. And it hurt to think about it. They called it Lucas Scott's fall from grace.
1. Prologue

**FALL FROM GRACE : prologue**

**-**

It had turned out all wrong – messed up –screwed up – fucked up. Story of my life, story of my job, story of my love. And it hurt to think about it.

Here I was, sitting in the hospital bed, cold, and alone, fingering the IV wire producing from my arm, which tingled my skin in some unpleasant way. Bunches and baskets of flowers on the nigh table did not cover up the dank and sterile smell of the room. The curtains were drawn.

My foot sat at the end of the bed, a large mound of plaster, and I stared at it with all my hurt and anger, wishing it away. I grabbed one of the magazines that were stacked on the bed cover, trying to focus my attention elsewhere, but the covers only reminded me about why I was here and what I had lost.

NBA Lakers' Lucas Scott: fall from the stars

I looked at another, my portrait filling the whole page: _Last performance for Scott in the NBA_

_For health_ _reasons _they said.

_Scott deliberately ignored Dr Worthwoe's, the team's doctor, recommendations as he stepped out on the court for the grand NBA final between the LA Lakers and Hornets yesterday evening. "Scott had complained about lack of breath and constrictions in his chest during the previous trainings," Dr Worthwoe explained during the late press conference. "My examination revealed a slight heart failure which must have developed from over-working. I tried reasoning him into taking it easy, and forgo the Final for his safety. But he was adamant about it." As the final seconds ticked down before the match's end, Scott charged down the court in a saving grace act for victory when to the crowd's dismay, he doubled over in pain, the basketball spinning out of control from his hands. It was a lethal fall for Scott and the Lakers, sealing the team's defeat, and the end of Scott's grand career in Basketball._

My fingers tore and the page in anger. Bunches of lies! All of them! Hypocrites – lying bastards! The magazine soon went flaying across the hospital room, knocking down a bunch of flowers. And then I was picking up another magazine, reading it fervently, my teeth grinding.

_Tomboy superstar Lucas Scott leading player in the NBA's Lakers: fall from grace._

_Scott's break-up with his fiancée, top model Juliana Duvall, had already made the headlines three days ago after the shocking discovery of his secret affair with the Lakers' cheerleader Rossy Bell. Scott did not deny the facts but did not comment on them either. But it is clear that the sorry_ _business has led to more serious matters.  
Yesterday evening, at the long awaited Grand Final between the Lakers and Hornets, Scott came crashing down on the court with seizures. He is presently out of danger, recovering at Sacred Heart's Hospital, St Barbara. The team's doctor revealed that the star player's health had been on a decline since April._

This too went flying across the room. In fact, the rest of the pile went too, until I found out that I had no more to throw. But then, there were those silly bunches of flowers sent by god knew who. A vase went crashing, and then the basket. I knew I was getting out of control with my anger. I'd never been someone with anger issues, but here, right now, hate took over, it blinded me, it swallowed me whole because I knew I had lost everything dear to my heart.

I heard a shout and running footsteps outside rushing towards my room. The door burst open and nurses came through, the doctor in tow.

"Hold him down! Or he'll hurt himself!"

Strong grips took hold of my arms, pinning them to my side. From the corner of my eye, I saw my trainer, in the corner, looking down at me with sorrowful eyes.

"You poisoned me – you bastard! I know it's you!" I shouted, sending cusses to the man. I struggled some more, but my strength had left me. I felt the prick of the needle, and then it was bliss.

* * *

Ok, to tell you the truth, I'm not a fan of One Tree Hill, I saw two episodes in all. However, what I do find interesting is Basketball – and the business of basket ball. What also intrigued me was to wonder how one can live one's passion – or have to live without it.  
Stay tuned to learn more about Scott basketball superstar!

PS: I f you would like to add a comment, I'd be glad to read it. I always find them constructive!


	2. The End

**The End**

-

When did it all start, you might ask me? When did my life get so fucked up? I was just Lucas Scott from Tree Hill. How did I become Lucas Scott NBA player? Does it have any importance now that I know I'll never be able to play pro again? Whom am I kidding? Can I even play ever again? With this broken and twisted foot, I'll be limping for some time, I'm sure. But for now, I'm struggling down the hospital corridor with crutches – I refused the wheelchair – slowly, painfully, flanked by three bodyguards, my secretary who is going through her agenda, and my manager who tries to give a word of comfort but his chubby face looks grave.

And then we're out in the open, cameras going off everywhere, flashes blinding, reporters calling me. "Lucas Scott! This way!" The bodyguards have formed a rampart against the dense and pushing crowd. I hear screams in the distance 'Lucas I love you!" Some fangirl I'd care less about. However there are large banners of support: it faintly warms my heart but I refuse to acknowledge the feeling. We press on towards the awaiting black limo. Soon there I tell myself, but I feel already tired and I feel as if we'll never get there.

True, a lot of people made the effort to come down to Sacred Heart's Hospital and I should feel comfort, but the noise – I'm sure I can hear jeering now - gets to my head, a headache throbbing my temples and wish that these people could get a life of their own. I wonder what was in that IV for I start stumbling. God help me, I don't want to crash here in front everybody. But then the door to the limo is being pulled open and I climb into the dark confines with some difficulty. Then finally the door closes, the noise dies away and I am left with blissful silence – and my manager.

"You've got quite a supportive crowd out there," he tells me peering out from the black tainted windows at the crowd pressed tight against it. However the limo moves off slowly. I look at him dubiously, as if I cared about those nobody people. I have more important matters on my mind.

"I still don't know how I broke my foot," I tell him looking down at the massive plaster mould in question.

He sighs. "The doctor told you already. When you fall unconscious, one's body is very fragile. You were running across the court at top speed, and then you crash down, unconscious, out of control, and your ankle snaps under the pressure."

I scowl at him. Crash, out of control, those words remind me of the articles I read yesterday in the magazines. He notices my dark expression and falls silent.

My manager Jonathan Barnes had always been a nice fellow with me, as if I was some favourite nephew of his he had to take special care of. I usually enjoyed it, but today it grated on me.

"What about my contract?" I ask him.

"You're in no shape to take up another match, not until you recover fully…" As if I ever will. "Your contract ends at the end of the month, until then you take it slow and we'll see about it then."

"No, now!"

He watches me disapprovingly, but complies. "The nature of your contract will change, if it is even re-conducted. I believe you might be able continue marketing for the NBA, get you portrait snapped a couple of times, get a check for going to a film premiere but, I'm afraid your basketball days will be over Lucas. You got us – me – very worried out there."

It was what I expected. I feel the urge to punch something. Instead I reach for the mini-bar, a shot of whisky should do, or maybe several I muse.

"So that's it? All I get to be from now on is pretty boy?" I gesture my face in a mock gesture but then I sober and I eel the urge to lean my head in my hands from sheer emotional exhaustion.

Basketball has been my life, since I was able to hold a ball, up to high school and beyond.

The dull roughness of the ball at the tip of his fingers as it leaps from my hands and towards the hoop, the familiar and comforting weight under the arm, the rush of adrenaline at the last step before victory.

Basketball earned me a scholarship I would never have been able to afford; it had earned me a good living, fame, a place in the LA Lakers' team. And now, I'd been seized and snatched away from the game, fated to stay an onlooker, a spectator till God knew when. As if to taunt me, a large and imposing advert loomed over the limo at a red light, my own face smiling right back at me, basketball in hand with streaming purple letters written across: Lucas Scott, Go Lakers! And the NBA logo, at the top right hand side of the poster, mocking. I look away.

"You hang on okay?" Barnes tells me; "I know how important basketball is to you. I know you wont fit in all this marketing rif raf. Maybe I can conjure something up, a place on the trainer team, supervisor to a coach, I'll find something. Okay?"

I nod feebly, his words triggering some small hope within me.

"There, that's my boy," he calls, patting my knee from his seat across from me in a fatherly way. I let him do so, too tired to protest and welcoming the small comfort offered. Yes, Barnes was somewhat an uncle figure to me.

"Did my family phone?" I ask wondering how my old entourage must have reacted to the news of my fallout. I also wonder how they taken all the gossip news as well: cheating on Juiliana. In fact, it was not that far from the truth.

"Yes, your brother phoned, and your mother and father. I told them you would call them back as soon as you were up to it."

Again I nod.

"For now we're getting you back to the villa, where you can rest. The hospital has dispatched a nurse just in case you need anything and a doctor Worthwoe will be visiting you tomorrow morning."

I raise my head at this. "First, I don't want a nurse, I can take care of myself. Second, I'm dismissing Dr Worthwoe. I don't want him near me ever again!"

Barnes looks surprised. "Why's that?"

"I've read the magazines, he says it's heart failure! The bastard! That he'd informed me months ago!"

"Why, isn't it true?"

I stare at him, realising that he'd gobbled all the lies, just as easily as that! "Fuck no! Do you think I'd just go and play risking my life and my career for just a match?"

"It wasn't just a match, Lucas, it was **the** Final. I know how stubborn you can be with that thick head of yours…"

That's it, I loose my temper. The small shot of whisky I'd been fingering hits the window. Beads of gold cling to dark pane catching the last rays of the day. "I'm suing him, Barnes. If it's true I have heart failure, he did NOT inform me! I've been working out twice as hard for weeks now – he **told** me I was in good health. Christ, I felt fine! And then there's all this bullshit about me having these problems!" I feel cheated, and wronged, as if someone had deliberately walked all over my dreams.

"Calm down Lucas, you gotta calm down. You're not doing yourself any good!"

I work my jaw trying to regain my calm. I never was the one for anger fits before, but they seem to come easily to me now. I look out of the window, at the sunset over the Ocean. The beach we're driving past looks welcoming and the sight of it with the golden sun as if were at the brim of the world soothes my nerves. As if the waves call to me, I have the urge to stop the limo and hop out. But then I remember that I have this dead weight at the end of my leg, and the crutches, and I wonder how well I'll do in the shifting sand with them. Not very well.

"I'm suing him. Get me another doctor, I want a full blood test or I don't know what. Some kind of analysis or something. A check up. I want it discreet, okay? Someone not in the sports field."

A dark expression falls over Barnes face. "Are you telling me…" he looks unsure, a little frightened. "…that someone wanted you out of the game?"

Uncomfortable, I turn away from his gaze. "I don't know," I whisper. The sun dives down over the horizon and disappears.

It is dark when we finally arrive. The limo rolls along the neat driveway, the gravel squealing under the wheels as it comes to a full stop at the front door. A light dangles from the porch illuminating the flagged stone steps that lead up to the large oak door. I hobble out of the limo, refusing the nurse's aid who'd followed us with the bodyguards and secretary. I push her away when she tries to stable me when I walk up the stairs to the open door. And when she starts protesting, tutt tutting me like I kid, my temper flares.

"You're dismissed! I don't need you!"

Her large eyes widen even more in surprise, from being yelled at or by the fact that I'm actually refusing her help, I don't know.

"Mr Scott!" she protests. "Of course you need my help! Who will see to your medication? The prescriptions?" She looks up at me appalled, as if I've grown a second head. Bingo, she's mad because I'm actually telling her to buzz off.

Barnes decides to intervene. "Lucas, she's right. I won't take no for an answer. Your health is your priority right now." I glare at him with all my might, but he does not back down even though I know he feels uncomfortable for pushing me around – even more so in my present state and after my brief anger fit in the limo.

I know I've been defeated by cold logic. Fuck. I turn my back on them and leave them behind. I head straight for the living room for privacy. The liquor cabinet is waiting for me. I feel as if I've made new friends: Jack comes down from the shelf, some Chateau-Neuf du Pape wine. Now, where was that Porto Rican rum I had served Juliana just a week ago?

It was not wise, to drink, I knew. I had never been fond of alcohol in the first place, and I hadn't allowed myself a drink since … since the day I joined the NBA and the Lakers. I remember the event like it was yesterday. Cheers from my friends and family.

_The champagne bottle looses its cork with a pop, and I, grinning like a ten year old boy over my champagne glass, wondering if the bubbly feeling in my stomach has something to do with the drink or just with the cheer excitement._

I could still hear them chanting "You're a jolly good fellow" over and over again, until the laughing and cheering was brought down to a less audible level, enough for Nathan to be heard and yell, raising his glass, "To Luke! who's on his way to be the best basketball player ever!" I'd nearly chocked on my drink with laughter.

I raise my glass as well, sloppy with its contents. Except it isn't champagne anymore, but a strange brew of different alcohols which I know will taste terrible. But I need to finish my career just like it had started so many years ago, with a toast.

"To Luke!" I call to the empty living room. "To the end!" Tilting the glass, I drink.

-

Or more exactly, I could have drunk.

But the glass only has time to brush against my lips before I pull it away, deciding against it. This is dumb, I'm better than this, better than getting drunk. You can't wash away your problems with alcohol. And then I remember that I'm on medication, that I shouldn't be drinking alcohol in case of a bad reaction. Didn't I already have enough on my plate without making things worse?

Slowly I shuffle up to the large green plant sitting in the corner. I can't even remember watering it since I bought the villa, but the maid has seen to it, and its leaves are lush and green. Bottoms up. I tip my glass and get rid of the brew I'd concocted just seconds earlier.

I stumble in surprise when someone nocks at the living room door. What's the matter now? If it's that nurse again, I swear I'll…

But instead of the small mousy nurse, the woman that appears at the door is all grace and sensuality. I recognise her, how couldn't I? I'd explored those curves with my bare hands so many times already. But those dark sad eyes make me feel slightly guilty. But I feel suspicious to why she's decided to visit me. The last words we'd exchanged just days ago were vicious ones and not an experience I want to relive.

"Hey Lucas," she breathes. She smiles, but it does not reach her eyes. "Barnes told me you were hiding in here."

"Kind of," I admit.

I want to turn around and forget her, but it's not an option.

With those long legs of hers she walks towards me and peers into my eyes. Her lips call to me, but then – I remember. It's as if I've taken a cold shower. There's no more warmth left, just hate.

"Hello Juliana."

With those two words, I remember how much of a bitch she is.

I smile, but it's grim. I know that this isn't the end of my problems – as if I haven't got enough. It's just the beginning, and there's no champagne.

* * *

Okay! First chapter! What do you think? It's rough times for Lucas. And what's all this about his ex-fiancée… being one hell of a bitch? For my defence, I say he's cursed with falling in love with strong, but slightly crazy women (Brooke). 


	3. Alone?

"Why don't you sit down?" I ask, mentioning the couch with one of my crutches outstretched towards the object in question. Eyeing me suspiciously, she saunters over to the pure leather couch and neatly sits down, crossing her legs. The pose is to her advantage I have to admit.

"How are you, Lucas? I was so worried when I got the news about your fallout on the court."

When I answer her, my voice drips with sarcasm. "Well," I start. "Seems that I've had these health problems for months now, you know. The foot is broken, but I'm sure in two weeks I'll be back in action. What do you think?"

Instead of answering, she fires back with a question of her own. "Do you really have heart failure? I didn't think they took in basketball players who drop off unconscious. Something about having to be healthy?"

She's trying to get a reaction, but I concede that she has a point. If I did have heart failure, it would have come up on the whole check up I took two years ago when I first joined the Team. If it was true, they would never have taken me in. "No, not usually."

"Strange," is all she has to add. "What are you going to do now?" she asks as I hand her a glass of Porto Rican Rum she likes so much. "You could become a top model. I think you've got quite the physique."

I chuckle. "No way."

"But your charming face and small stubbed noise is already all over the country. It's not a big step to take all things considered."

I watch her now, attentively: the smooth angles of her face, her perfect nose, the curve of her eyebrow. The long legs, her slim waist, her charming assets (to put it lightly). Seeing her there makes my insides burn. I want to take her right here, right now, but then I remember that the woman I'd fallen in love with did not exist anymore that night at the film premiere when we first met. What had become of her?

Back then, she was at the debuts of her line of business, still full of liveliness, of hope about the future. I can't quite remember when she turned into this creature, so manipulative, so fake. She'd promised she'd never take pills to get her career going, but of course, I found some in her drawer at her apartment. Was it because the fame that went to her head?

"No, I don't think I'll take that step, Juliana."

She looks disappointed, and turns her pretty face away probably to hide the fact that she is. But this chitchat is getting on my nerves and I want this conversation over and done with. So I finally ask her why she came over in the first place.

My question has barely left my lips that she looks up at me, her eyes rimmed with tears! Good god! What's gotten in to her?

"Do you love me?"

"I beg you pardon?"

She stands up and approaches me, her bottom lip trembling. "Do you still love me Lucas?"

I try to take a step back, but the liquor cabinet is in the way. What's with this woman? One day she's screaming that we're breaking up, which was fine with me, as the relationship had come to a dead end and I realised that proposing had been one of my biggest mistakes in my life. And now she's all over me?

"You're sick, Juliana." I try to move away, but she's made a point of getting in my way as she leans up against me.

"What does _Rossy Bell_ have that I don't?"

"Okay, you're leaving."

I push her away with force and she stumbles, surprised. Angry lines spread between her eyebrows and her tone takes a sharper edge.

"Why don't you love me anymore?" she asks just like a spoilt brat would ask her Dad why she didn't get a pony! I look back at her in disbelief.

"Why?" I splutter. "You ask me why? And you, when did you stop loving me?"

She does not answer, so I jump to the occasion and give the answer myself: "When you started to fake it! When your own life became so fake, so callous that you had to sniff coke to feel happy!

"When you purposely put our private life out in the open, gnawed at like meat by those so-called reporters, without my consent! When I became just a toy in your career. And when I realised that you loved what they had to say in magazines more than what he had between us. You make me feel sick!"

Oh, I remember all right. I'd first wondered how the news of our engagement had got out, before I even had the time to announce it to my family. I'd figured maybe that the waiter at the restaurant who'd served us in our private room had eavesdropped and had ran to the first press agency he could find to spread the news, and get a little money out of it.

But then, when I'd found my team players joking about a little cottage in New Zealand, and a pony for our kids, small private fantasies about the life I had imagined for both of us, which I'd shared with Juliana one morning in bed(believe it. It had been early in the morning when I'd talked about that, still not fully recovered from my dreams), there was only one explanation: Juliana had babbled about it in front of a reporter. Three consecutive pages in People was enough evidence. I got angry. When I confronted Juliana with it, she confessed it had got the better of her.

However, since then, we'd found reporters around each corner, everywhere we went. We'd planned an outing at a theme park, just the two of us, incognito, and suddenly there were a dozen of reporters waiting for us when we stepped out of our role-coaster cart. The next day I found pictures of us kissing when I thought it had been just the two of us. I felt violated. I had expected to find my feelings shared with Juliana, but instead she was quite elated about the whole affair, reading out each paragraph, commenting each photo.

"This can't continue!" I'd told her.

She'd looked up at me in surprise from the bed. "Why not? It's not as if we can stop them. Besides, it does boost my career."

"That's all you have to say to it?" I'd asked her in disbelief. I'd felt as if my heart had been wrenched out of my chest by her own hands.

"Oh, come on Luky. It's fun. Look at the good sides of things, now it doesn't matter if you forget to phone your family or anything, they can just read the papers and find out what's going on."

I'd felt un-expectantly cheated back then. She'd rubbed in the fact that I was hardly in contact with Nathan and my Mum anymore, my time all taken up by basketball, by the numerous trips around the world that came with the package. Truth be told, a rift between me and my family had grown deeper for years, more so between my Mum and I since Keith death's, and then with Nathan because he had his life of his own with Hailey and their kids and there wasn't much space for Uncle Luke anymore.

The worst was when I broke up with Juliana. The memory was still fresh in my mind from a couple of days ago. Thinking about it made my blood boil.

She'd flung the magazine at my face, the one that held the pictures of the incriminating act with Rossy Bell. The ring had followed – down the drain. She'd cussed and screamed so much that I hadn't been able to put in two words, not for my defence that is, I _was_ guilty, but I'd wanted to put the blame on her as well. And when finally I could give her a piece mind, it had been an unpleasant experience.

"Come on, Julia, you saw it coming!"

"What the fuck are you talking about!" she'd replied with vehemence.

"Since when have we been in each other's confidence? You talk of trust, but you betrayed me first! You don't love me, you love yourself more than anyone else! You love your fucking picture more than me! You're angry because you thought you had me under your thumb! I'm not one of your trophies, you just couldn't deal with the fact that maybe I had my own opinions! You can't run me like your schedule! If you were a bit more open minded…"

"What are you fucking talking about!" She'd been aghast.

"You betrayed my personal life for fame! That's what I'm talking about. God dammit! You're so selfish, did you ever stop to think that maybe talking about Keith's death in a paper would not upset me!"

"I thought you were over with it! It's been years! You're a big boy! Deal with it."

"You're a insensitive bitch, that's what you are!"

She'd slapped me hard then and I could have retaliated, but some principals still held strong even after all these years. The fact was that I could never hit a woman. Instead I'd headed into our room. I'd thrust the cupboards open, throwing all the clothes out, the rows of shoes, the expensive suits and shirts, all the clothes she'd chosen for me over the years. I'd understood she'd tried to make me someone I was not, dressing me up like some kind of doll, trying to control my god damned life, choosing my friends and could you believe it? Even my taste in music! She'd chucked my favourite discs. _Friends with Benefit_ had gone to the dump, _Aerosmith_…

I'd put up with her parties, the hand shaking just for her sake, her fake friends, even her smoking! Because I'd held on to the belief that she was still the tender and sensitive woman when we first met and when I first proposed.

And right now, I know I'm red in the face, angry, exhausted, out of breath. Meanwhile, Juliana's complexion has paled considerably, so much in fact that I'm thinking she might be on the verge of fainting any moment now. But she seems to recover: she steps back and straitens, looking stiff. Her voice is oddly calm when she next speaks.

"I'm relieved that you're alright… I followed the match, on TV. And when you fell, and you didn't get up... For a moment, I thought you were dead." She actually looks genuine, which makes me suspicious. "I'm sorry about your foot," she tells me motioning my plaster with her glass. "I can't imagine how you must feel right now, your plans and talent… gone to waste. Your dreams tumbling down… Taken from you so brutally…" She finishes in a whisper, but it's enough to twist my guts.

She lifts the rum to her lips, and drinks it down in gulp. She is scaring me now with her detached manner for her surroundings, her eyes glassy, wondering off to the side.

"Juliana?" I can't keep the concern out of my voice, as much as I hate her right now.

"It's okay," she tells me. "I'll go. You need your rest." She smiles shyly.

She picks up her purse, and heads towards the door, but pauses before turning back looking at me attentively.

"You're a good man, Lucas. And I'll always love you for that." And then she's gone, leaving me feeling wasted and empty.

I feeling had been nagging at me all through our conversation, a feeling which had been floating around for months. And now I figured it out. It was pity.

Sighing, I take out my cell phone and dial the familiar number, waiting for Rossy to pick up the line. But all I get is her answering machine again. "You've reached Rossy Bell's answering machine! I'm not here right now, please leave me a message after the beep and I'll call you back!" Shit, what was she up to? I feel suddenly abandoned and quite alone.

That night, I dream of Sophia and Rossy. Sophia laughs over her glass of rum, or was she crying? "What about the pony?" she was asking. "And the cottage? All gone, all gone…" Then Rossy appears, in her cheerleader outfit, blond locks tied away from her face into a ponytail, her striking blue eyes staring back at me. "And a L, and a U, and a C…" The she stops and asks what's the matter. I try to reply, but she continues on. "I think it was a mistake. Really. I don't like guys who cheat on their girlfriends and take dope to make their stats rise."

"I don't take dope!" I quip back.

"Oh come on, no one is that good without a little help!" she replies back.

"I don't".

"It's what they all say!"

When I wake up, I'm still a little disoriented. But I reach for my cell phone and dial her number.

"Rossy!"

But she doesn't answer. Instead it is a strange message. I have to listen to it several times before I get the meaning because of my sleep induced state. But the robotic words finally make sense.

"The number you're trying to reach does not exist anymore."

Shit. Now what?

I suppose I was really starting to feel alone.

* * *

Here's for the third chapter! (yeah, a little late. hehe. sorry!)

Thanks for the reviews Nemo123489 and MinLaughlin!

I hope I don't disppoint when I say that I'm not really following the TVshow anymore (no TV!). And so I'm only aware of a few (old) facts. As Dan is Lucas's real father, his mum is now a widdow. I was actually not aware that Lucas had some health problem when I first started the fic, but I suppose we all saw it coming in the TVshow, no?

Anyway, who is Lucas with right now in the show?

(hit the button dudes! Hit that review button!) No seriously, what did you think about this chapter? About Lucas's relationship with Juliana?


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